Go Your Own Way
by The General G of K
Summary: MID-TWILIGHT--But still. He’s her boyfriend. And that, for lack of a better term, sucks. Paul POV


**Go Your Own Way**

_By: The General_

**Pairings:** Paul, mentions of Paul/Suze, Jesse/Suze, Paul/Kelly**  
Disclaimer:** I do not own the _Mediator_ series, so, ha-ha, joke's on you, Cabot! Title borrowed from a Fleetwood Mac song of the same name, which I feel describes Paul's feelings toward Suze to a tee.  
**Spoilers:** Minor ones for _Twilight_ for anyone who was fortunate enough to not have read it yet.  
**Description:** But still. He's her boyfriend. And that, for lack of a better term, sucks.  
**Rating:** PG  
**TG/N:** I started this back in October of last year during this weekend seminar thing regarding conservative politics that I was forced to attend. My one-shots are tragically becoming 'thousand year'-shots, which is nice, I think. Not. In any case, this takes place in _Twilight_, and is told in Paul's second person POV. For whatever reason, I just think this way of storytelling works so well for Paul's character. This is my version of closure for Paul asking Kelly to the winter formal and not Suze. My grudge is a deep rooted one.

* * *

It's cold.

_2:56_

As far as West Coast winters go, it's still warm outside, obviously, but the air conditioning in the school keeps blowing full force, and the seat directly in front of the air vent isn't exactly providing any semblance of warmth whatsoever.

So there's no reason why your palms should be sweating this profusely. Sweaty palms are indicative of nerves, but you've never had reason to be nervous in your entire life. That is, until now.

Yet, even you continue to deny and ignore the feeling since its epicenter is located in that dark, honest place you have not acknowledged since the third grade because, well; why should you? The Slater gene pool doesn't even _have_ the nerves chromosome, and even if it did, it would be dominated by the all-mighty confidence chromosome, so . . .

No, to answer a question nobody asked, you're not nervous about thinking about asking Suze to the Winter Formal. And even if you were, you would deny it vehemently until the day Heidegger comes back from the grave. Or until your parents finally agreed to purchase that Porsche you reasonably requested for your birthday this year.

_2:57_

You steal a glance at Suze across the room out of habit. Sometime between your transition from normal, teenage boy to obsessive, part-time stalker, it has become just another activity on your 'Things to Do in English Class' list that you've never _actually_ written out but have stowed away for occasions such as this. She's wearing a cashmere sweater in lilac, absently twirling a strand of hair around her finger as she's talking to Cee Cee in hushed whispers, and from experience, you know her hair, clothes, and neck smell like rose petals and autumn. A scent that could be traced back to the perfume _Jesse_ gave her a couple weeks ago "just because" he loves her. She hasn't stopped wearing it since.

In the sentimental part of your brain, you imagine she uses the perfume as a cloaking device, covering everything in "Jesse" so she can more easily cover and suppress any feelings she still has for you. It would be nauseating except it means that she still feels _something_ regarding you, so in that respect, it's not too bad.

In the reasonable and sane part of your brain, however, you know she uses the perfume because she likes the scent. Plus, it's rude not to use something someone gave to you as a gift. At least, according to society, anyway. But still.

He's her boyfriend.

And that, for lack of a better term, sucks.

There's nothing particularly wrong with Jesse. Although he does have that annoying habit of acting pretentious enough that it starts to bug, and his shirt is never appropriately buttoned or laced or whatever it does, and he has the _gayest_ walk of anyone you've ever seen. Plus, oh, yeah, _dead_.

But, in all fairness, most of those things are petty nitpicks. A defense mechanism, if you will, to soften the blow. Honestly, he seems like a decent enough guy; he seems to really care about Suze, and other than the dead thing, you have no qualms with the guy . . . mostly. It's just . . .

Really? A _dead_ guy? The fact that she would rather spend her time with a figment of most people's imagination instead of you, a charming, attractive, athletically inclined, rich example of the male species with, bonus: a beating heart, gets under your skin in even ways you didn't expect.

You didn't mean to get so attached. It wasn't like you came to Carmel on your summer vacation, searching for your _'one true love.'_ You didn't plan to fall for the girl who just happened to babysit your brother. There was never a moment where you consciously thought, 'Gee, I hope I get emotionally attached to someone of the opposite gender!' And even if you had, you never would have picked a girl like Suze, a girl who somehow manages to make you _feel_. To make you _care_.

It's unnatural, and furthermore, it's lame and counterproductive. The time you use for pining could be used for a whole slew of things way more important, like lifting or studying or, hell, even oceanic water life conservation. Anything but the continuous plague of thoughts about her. It's uncomfortable. You've been so 'me-centric' for your entire life, it feels like a breach of self that this chick should redirect the spotlight to her so soon, so abruptly.

But that's exactly what Suze did. She came into your life, unexpectedly, and hasn't had the decency to leave, or better yet, disappear ever since. Part of you is annoyed because you have become so attached to another person. Basically, you're acting like a total chick. On the other hand, you are scared. Particularly about all the evidence pointing toward your inevitable insanity if you don't stop thinking about her so frequently.

Mostly, you're just confused.

And, honestly, who could blame you? One moment, she seems to like you well enough, at the very least, well enough to let you stick your tongue in her mouth; and the next, she's self-righteously declaring you the spawn of Satan, all the while suppressing any legitimate attraction she may feel towards you. She's like that stupid Katy Perry song: she's hot, then she's cold. All smiles, then scowls. She'll love you, then leave you. One moment it's flirtatious banter and hair flips, the next it's cold shoulders and involuntary shudders. Honestly, it's enough to drive even the sanest of men crazy. It's enough to make a man unsure of where he stands.

Only, the irony of it all is that you know exactly where you stand. And, coincidentally, it just happens to be second best to De Silva.

_2:58_

Being a Slater, you're not predominantly accustomed to coming in second place. As a matter of fact, it is practically engraved on your family crest that all members of the Slater clan will achieve first place. It's true. Look it up.

Sports, girls, material possessions, it didn't matter. Paul Slater got whatever Paul Slater wanted. It never mattered who you had to step over to get there, it just mattered that you reached your goal. That whole 'the-end-justifies-the-means' scenario the moral elite seem to have such an issue with. That was practically your code, your credo. At least, it was before a certain complication came along and disrupted everything you knew to be true. Everything you knew to be reality.

That complication went by the name of Suze Simon. And she just happened to bring an even larger complication with her.

Jesse De Silva.

_2:59_

Realization had never exactly been your best friend, but it had never been an insufferable bastard before either. Usually, for the most part, it only ever told you what you already knew subconsciously. Like, for instance, that you have great hair, or that your arms were looking particularly buff that morning. It had never, on the other hand, blatantly informed you that you would never replace Jesse in Suze's life, no matter how hard you fought.

_You will never be better than Jesse DeSilva in Suze's eyes_, you think to yourself in a manner that can almost uncomfortably be described as miserable. Your pencil point snaps as you press it with more force than necessary to the paper in front of you. The sound forcefully reminds you of crushed ambitions and stark defeat.

_But who knows?_ you think to yourself. Maybe with the right amount of persuasion and logic, she might say yes to a proposal to attend the Winter Formal together . . .

_3:00_

"Hey, Kelly," you say. Because, honestly, a guy can only take rejection so many times. Because deep down, you know she will never feel about you the way you feel about her. Because, honestly, you're just not strong enough. "Want to go to the Winter Formal with me?"

The sudden eruption of conversation, signaled by the teacher's dismissal of school for the day, just barely masks Kelly's answer and additional squeals of delight. You're not entirely sure, but you get the distinct impression that she might have said yes. Mentally, you make a note to pick up your tux from the dry cleaners.

Despite the increased noise out in the breezeway, your thoughts can clearly be heard above the students' conversations.

No matter what you do, no matter how many roses you buy her. No matter how hard you work by the sweat of your brow, or how much of your soul and your blood you pour into the project. No matter how much sheer will power you demonstrate, no matter how much faith you cling to. No matter how much time you waste, how many tears you shed, or how hard you fight, bruises and all, it will never matter.

Your efforts will never matter. You, like many more before you, will always be second best.

You will _always_ come in second place.

And that, for lack of a better term, sucks.


End file.
